Curtain Call
by BROXA
Summary: His foot on the final step, he turned to face her and gave her another eerie, fakesmile, and whispered, This is my scene.
1. Chapter 1

Curtain Call

By, december.morning

Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural…ah, if only…I have my dreams. Oh, and the Bucks County Playhouse is a real playhouse, but it isn't haunted.

Authors Note: This is my first fanfiction in a while (I used to write LOTR fanfics under another name)…just saying!

Summary: His foot on the final step, he turned to face her and gave her another eerie, fake-smile, and whispered, "This is my scene."

.xxx.

_August 15th, 2001--Bucks County Playhouse_

"Remind me again how you managed to forget your jacket, if it was so freakin' expensive?" Grumbled James as he swung himself from the driver's seat of his treasured 1964 Mercury Comet Caliente. His girlfriend, Clarissa, huffed and crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at him.

"Shut up and give me the chain…scissor…things. Cut the chains! My mom doesn't know I'm here," muttered Rissa, jabbing a frosted fingernail at the heavy chains wound around the Bucks County Playhouse doors. James rolled his eyes and extracted the necessary tool from the trunk of his car and walked over to the chained doors, boots crunching on the gravel road. Rissa hurried to catch up with him, running gingerly because of the high heels she wore: towering specimens that made her at least three inches taller.

As James wrestled with the clippers, Rissa put a hand to her forehead, her face twisted up. He turned to her, clippers ready to bite through the shiny chains. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Still a bit hung over from last night, I guess."

"Huh. That was some party!"

"Clip! That jacket is Italian leather!"

James curled his lip at her, and, with a grunt and a strain of his muscles, forced the clippers to bite through the chains. He stepped back, dropped the clippers, and grinned at Rissa. She eyed him expectantly, so he pushed open the heavy doors for her and gestured with his right arm. "Ladies first."

Together, they stepped into the abandoned playhouse, although it didn't look so abandoned; currently, it looked like the site of a wild rave, which, coincidentally, it was. Several of the seats were ripped up, beer bottles and cans littered the ground, and there was a boom box in the corner. There was grafitti covering the walls, some fresh, some in various states of age. The only untouched area was the stage; it was disturbingly pristine. Not even a speck of dust marred the polished oak stage.

"Spooky! Where's that jacket, Riss?" Inquired James, picking up a lacy black bra that was slung over a seat with two fingers. "Someone had a lot of fun."

Rissa snorted in laughter, but didn't look up as she continued poking around the rows of seats for her jacket. She was so engaged in looking under seat Q 18 that she didn't notice the person standing behind her until he draped something over her shoulders.

Before she even fully knew what she was doing, she screamed, whirled around, and tripped herself on the person's ankles. She landed somewhat uncomfortably in the seat, where she screamed again, until the person put a hand over her mouth. It was only then that her brain registered who it was.

"Rissa! Jesus. I found your jacket," James grumbled, rubbing his ankle.

"Great. Now, let's get the hell out of here," she said quietly, picking up her jacket from where it had fallen onto the floor.

"Wait, wait. You owe me something after that," James said slowly, a grin spreading over his face. Rissa glared at him for a moment.

"James! You know I'm flat broke—oh!"

He grinned, as if marveling at her naivety, and leaned down, propping his arms on the armrest of the seat. Slowly, gently, his lips touched hers, and they kissed passionately, until Rissa squeaked quietly and pulled back. Her eyes were wide, and she was biting her lip; she looked frightened.

"Rissa, what's wrong?"

"I…it…I don't like it here! It feels creepy. I want to leave, James," she said in a low voice, struggling up from the seat awkwardly. "We got my jacket, now let's go!"

James huffed and stepped back, dragging a hand across his face. "God, Rissa. You're such a scaredy-cat. Don't tell me you believe that dumbass legend?"

"People have died in here, James! It's haunted! A lot," she answered defensively, and they stood toe to toe, seething, until a raucous creaking noise interrupted the silent argument.

The two of them eyed each other for a long moment, then, as if it had been rehearsed, they turned slowly, just in time to see the heavy, weighted theater door moving on its rusted hinges—by itself. Then, as if someone had pushed it violently, it slammed shut faster than the eye could follow. The auditorium was darker than the blackest midnight, and the two teenagers were alone without a flashlight.

Rissa squealed and threw herself at James, who opened his arms accommodatingly. "Hang on, I gotta lighter…," he muttered, fishing through his pockets. "Aha! Found ya, you little bastard," he added, triumphantly holding up a little red cigarette lighter. He flicked it on, and by the light of the tiny flame, they made their way to the door.

A grating noise filled the air, and by the insubstantial flame, the pair saw the heavy metal bolt slide through its casing, locking securely into place. James gulped audibly, and Rissa whimpered.

"James…I don't like it here…" she whispered, her voice echoing eerily through the pitch black auditorium.

"Cool it, Riss. I'm just gonna open—up—the—bolt—my God! Little fucker's in there tight!" He grunted, straining at the bolt. No matter how hard he tugged, it wouldn't budge. Rissa turned her sightless eyes down the aisle, to the stage, then squealed loudly and pressed herself against the door, whimpering incoherently.

"What _now_? A stray cat? Or maybe a—" He turned around and fell silent for a moment, gaping like a fish. "Oh…my…fucking…God…"

There was a cloud of mist on the stage, about the size of an average pillow, and creamy white in color. It was puffy, like a cumulus cloud, and exuded a pleasant, rosy smell. James tilted his head, enthralled, as a pretty tune filled the air, a tune Rissa recognized as the opening notes to 'Masquerade', from the Broadway show _The Phantom of the Opera_. Rissa gulped, but James grabbed her hand and dragged her down the aisle.

"I think it wants to help us, Rissa…maybe it knows about a door…"

"Help? Yeah, right! James, let me go! I don't want to put my life in the…uh, hands…of a singing cloud!"

But he only rolled his eyes and continued down the aisle. 'Masquerade' grew louder, but it was taking on a more sinister air; it was less pretty, and less pleasant. The cloud was growing darker; now it was a rather unpleasant shade of brown, and the rosy smell was being overpowered by a revolting smell of rotting flesh.

"James! Something's wrong!"

He only grunted, and continued pulling her down the aisle. As she became more and more frightened, she tugged harder and harder, until she finally wrenched her reddened wrist from his death-grip. The sudden pressure released, she fell onto the floor, where she lay still as James turned his glazed eyes upon her.

"Watch the show, Clarissa."

"James—James, something's wrong…we need to get out of here…"

"Stay and watch the show. It's going to be incredible, Clarissa," he murmured in an eerily deadpan voice. His eyes were still glazed over; slowly, slowly, they were turning white, and his tanned skin was growing paler by the second. She merely whimpered and scooted backwards; James gave her a plastic smile and turned on his heel, his movements jerky, as if he were a marionette, under the command of an amateur puppet-master.

As she watched, frightened into a state of immobility, he slowly climbed the steps onto the stage, his footsteps echoing into the auditorium. His foot on the final step, he turned to face her and gave her another eerie, fake-smile, and whispered, "This is my scene."

And as 'Masquerade' shrieked in her ears, he turned and stepped onto the stage. She watched, breathless with terror, as he walked to the center of the meticulously clean platform, and knelt.

"James…please…"

He bowed his head and whispered something: the ending words to the song.

"_Let the spectacle astound you._"

And he threw his head back, the sound of his neck popping filling the auditorium. A horrendous, unearthly scream was drawn from his throat, an ear-popping, window-shattering shriek. His head drooped, then was flung back again, and another hideous cry was torn from his throat.

By now, Rissa was screaming too—the cloud, the same cloud that had lured James to its territory, was drifting over to James, who was still kneeling on the stage, still screaming hideously. Leisurely, it came into place above him, then drifted down. It stretched itself, so to cover his body completely, and abruptly, his screams stopped; the cloud became opaque, and Rissa lay on the floor, motionless, breathless.

Then the cloud vanished, and James' skeleton pitched to the floor.

* * *

All right! That's the first chapter of Curtain Call. I hope you like it...review if you did or didn't, I appreciate any comments! 


	2. Chapter 2

Curtain Call

By, december.morning

Disclaimer: Nope, nothing new to say. I don't own 'em. But I did buy some chocolate yesterday! I own that!

Summary: His foot on the final step, he turned to face her and gave her another eerie, fake-smile, and whispered, "This is my scene."

.xxx.

_August 17th, 2003—Lucky 7 Motel_

"Hey! Did you drown in the toilet or something?" Dean yelled, from his vantage point on the hard, bumpy hotel mattress. "I found something!"

It took a few impatient minutes, but Sam finally emerged from the bathroom, wearing a pair of blue jeans that looked like they had taken a beating, and a faded navy hoodie.

"Your deodorant?"

"Ha, funny. Take a look at this, college boy, and tell me what you think," he grumbled, pushing the laptop towards Sam, who grinned at him and bent his shaggy head over the monitor.

Sam read the article, from an old issue of the Philadelphia Inquirer: _Local Girl Discovered With Bones of Classmate_

_Yesterday, just hours after a missing person's report was filed, 19-year-old Clarissa Davidson was discovered in the abandoned Bucks County Playhouse with an as-of-yet unidentified skeleton. Davidson was found in the aisle, with the skeleton, stripped of flesh, on the stage. Said police chief Marc Bates, "She was inconsolable, quite possibly insane. She kept babbling about a singing cloud that enveloped her boyfriend and stripped his bones of any flesh. Nonsense, of course."_

_Davidson was admitted to the Green Oaks Insane Asylum, where she is reportedly refusing to talk to the doctors. _

_Experts are examining the body, and what they have discovered is tantalizing and confusing. Dr. Mariah Lewis said, "The skeleton is male, around 20 years old, and healthy. What's strange is every clue indicates that he only died the day before. It's almost as if every piece of flesh was vacuumed from his bones. But, of course, that is impossible."_

_Right now, it is believed that Miss Davidson killed the victim in a fit of rage. The question is, how?_

He looked up, to see Dean grinning expectantly at him. "So, Bucks County Playhouse?"

"Yeah, all right."

.xxx.

_August 18th, 2003—Bucks County Playhouse_

Barely a day later, Sam and Dean stood in front of the newly chained doors of the Bucks County Playhouse, which had a decisively lonely, but sinister, air about it—not unlike a murdering hermit. Sam turned his head and eyed Dean, but the older man wasn't looking at him; Dean was scanning the building, seeming to look at everything but the door.

"So, how are we gonna get in?" Sam asked loudly, and Dean jumped slightly, then turned to him with a cocky smile.

"Winchester style," he answered, then turned and walked down the side of the building. "Look for an open window. Maybe Mr. Observant can find a way to get in."

Sam just rolled his eyes and followed Dean, who was banging on the windows of the theater: grimy, cracked specimens about five feet off the ground. Meanwhile, Sam kicked the wall methodically, looking for a hollow spot: maybe there was some sort of secret door? Old, creepy places like the Bucks County Playhouse always had secret doors, right?

He had been beating the wall for about two minutes before two things happened simultaneously: Dean's yell of "Found one! Hey, Sammy, gimme a boost!" shattered the quiet, muggy air, and a hollow noise permeated the air around Sam. Quickly, he knelt and pounded the wall with a fist; the same hollow noise rung through the August air. Dean, sensing he was being ignored, came over, hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket.

"Whatcha find?"

"Listen to this," and he hit the wall again. Yet again, the hollow noise vibrated in their ears. "Doesn't it sound hollow?"

"Sammy, it's an old building. Our house in Kentucky used to creak like the roof was coming down every night. Buildings make noises, now c'mon. I found a window."

Sam scowled at his brother, but got up and followed Dean as he led the way back to the window.

Behind them, a sinister chuckle floated from the wall, and a single word: "Action."

.xxx.

_August 18th, 2003—inside the playhouse_

"Remember, don't go on the stage," Sam reminded for what seemed to be the hundredth time. But, hundredth time or not, Dean was meandering down the aisle, flashlight beam jumping over the dusty rows of velvet seats, his eyebrows knitted.

"Just 'cuz I didn't go to college doesn't mean I'm stupid! I'm looking under the stage. Calm down," Dean barked over his shoulder.

Sam rolled his eyes and continued tapping the walls of the theater, seeing if he could relocate the hollow spot he'd noticed on the outside of the theater. Just as he felt he was getting close, Dean yet again shattered his train of thought.

"Dude. Jackpot."

.xxx.

Again, please review! I love to know how I'm doing. Especially how I'm handling Dean; he's a pretty intimidating character to write. Anyway, next chapter, we find out what Dean found…and, if I feel like sharing, who the laugh came from.

Oh, yeah…anyone think I should change the summary? If you find anything "summary worthy" in this chapter, or in the last one, let me know!


	3. Chapter 3

Curtain Call

By, december.morning

Disclaimer: OMG! I OWN THEM…no, I don't. But wouldn't that be nice?

Summary: His foot on the final step, he turned to face her and gave her another eerie, fake-smile, and whispered, "This is my scene."

Last time in Curtain Call: Sam found what he thinks is a hollow spot in the playhouse wall, and Dean finds what he describes as a "Jackpot" under the stage.

.xxx.

_August 18th, 2003—inside the playhouse_

"What'd you find?" Sam asked, hurrying from the wall to his brother, who was flat on his stomach, his body halfway under the stage. From his strange position, Dean waved an arm at Sam, and yelled what was either "Cream cheese!" or "C'mere!" Assuming it was the latter, Sam got down on the floor and wiggled and thrashed his way under the stage, until he was even with Dean.

"Check it out. Looks Ghost Boy had another hobby 'sides acting."

Under the stage, there was a platform, on which Dean and Sam lay. But the platform changed seamlessly into a set of steep stairs, which led down into a dark, dungeon-esque room, the walls of which were covered with wicked looking knives and other unpleasant instruments. An Iron Maiden was propped up in the corner, its door slightly open, and there was a nice selection of syringes arranged on a wooden table in another corner. But the unmistakable center piece of the sadistic room was a huge stockpot, large enough to fit, say, Dean, if he were to crouch into a ball. A section of the floor was hollowed into an indent, in which firewood was arranged, and the pot itself hung from a groaning metal rod.

"Hey, I saw one of those in the Amityville Horror…" Dean muttered, pointing at the Iron Maiden. "You should've seen his back, it was all cut open…"

"Dean! Focus. This isn't a movie, it's an actual torture chamber!" Sam said angrily, wriggling his body into a position so that he could slide and bump his way down the stairs.

"There—has—to—be—a—better—way!" Dean grumbled, his voice punctuated by grunts as he followed Sam. "Oof!" He fell hard on the bottom of the stairs, and stood gingerly, his eyes narrowed as he peered around the chamber.

"This looks familiar…" Sam said quietly, pacing around the room. Newspaper articles fluttered on the walls, blown by an unseen wind; one in particular drew his attention. The headline was, _Another Chef Victim Found._

"I think we might have found the kitchen of The Chef," he said decisively, leaning close to the article.

"The Chef? What the hell kind of a name is that?"

"He was a serial killer back in the 70's, Dean, they called him The Chef because he boiled his victims' bones in a stockpot. Exhibit A," he said, waving his hand at the stockpot. "It all fits. Knives, needles, cooking pot, news articles…"

"How'd he do it?" Dean asked with a sort of morbid interest, looking up at Sam from where he leaned by the Iron Maiden.

"Papers said he injected his victims with some sort of medicine that made pain sharper, hence the needles. Then he'd literally carve them like a Thanksgiving Turkey, do God-knows-what with the flesh, and boil away whatever he couldn't cut off in that big pot over there. Nice, huh?"

Dean pushed himself off of the wall, looking a bit green. "Yeah, lovely. But why here?"

"Well, a nice, popular community theater is the last place you'd think would be the site of horrible, gruesome killings, right? Hiding in the open. Classic killer," Sam answered distractedly, walking slowly along the wall. "Hey, check out this article. It's weird—it doesn't fit the pattern."

"What is it?" Dean asked unnecessarily, as he picked his way across the bone-strewn floor. Coming in next to Sam, he came face to face with a yellowing article, the headline of which read: _Bucks County Playhouse Production of 'The Phantom of the Opera' A Fabulous Flop_.

"What a mouthful."

"Just read it, Dean!"

_Last night, Director Joseph Bates finally unveiled his production of 'The Phantom of the Opera', a big budget play the company had been rehearsing since mid-January. Sadly, it seemed that none of the rehearsals did any good. The play flopped magnificently, with Raul (Antoine Tentilucci) forgetting half of his entrances, Christine (Melina Davidson) singing off key for most of the second act, and the majority of the other actors making uncorrectable mistakes. Just before the closing number, 'Masquerade', Bates was seen storming from the playhouse._

"Melina Davidson. Wasn't that chick in the other article named Clarice Davidson or whatever?"

"Clarissa Davidson, yeah. Think there's a connection?" Sam asked, but before he even finished the sentence, Dean ripped the article off of the wall and began climbing up the stairs again.

"C'mon, Sammy, we're paying the Green Oaks Insane Asylum a visit."

.xxx.

_August 18th, 2003—Green Oaks Insane Asylum_

Less than an hour later, Dean maneuvered the Impala into a too-small parking spot, his tongue between his teeth in concentration: this was the only available spot, and it was flanked by an SUV on the left and a minivan on the right.

"Dean. Come on, you're driving like someone's Grandma!"

"Don't wanna scratch my baby…" Dean muttered, pushing down gently on the accelerator. Finally, the car glided into the parking spot, straight as a whistle, and without a scratch on it. Dean smiled triumphantly and opened the door as far as it would go, and wriggled and thrashed his way out of the car. Sam would have laughed if he wouldn't have had to done the same thing, except in an even more confined space.

"Next time, pick a spot bigger than four feet square, okay?"

"Why? Car's fine."

"You're missing the point, Dean! Now act normal, that nurse is staring at you."

Dean peered around the sterile, bright waiting room, until he spotted a petite, brunette nurse, who's eyes were fixed upon him. Mainly, upon his ass. He coughed slightly to let her know he knew she was watching him, and the nurse looked up, and smiled slowly. Dean smiled back, the patented Dean Winchester grin that most females found irresistible. Meanwhile, Sam rolled his eyes, grabbed Dean's arm, and bodily dragged him up to the check-in desk, where an older, less attractive nurse was glaring at them with hostile, steel grey eyes.

"You boys looking to check in?" She asked, giving them the once-over. Granted, they didn't have a distinctive air of insanity, but you never knew. The apparently older one was being literally dragged around, and he was clutching an old newspaper article with a somewhat obsessive air. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for an answer, as they both gaped at her. After several awkward seconds, the younger one regained his senses.

"Uh, no. No, we we're looking to visit a patient. A Clarissa Davidson? Admitted two years ago?" Sam said earnestly, then smiled at her. "It's important…Nancy," he added, reading her nametag.

"I'm not Nancy. I borrowed this."

"Oh. Well, sorry, miss…"

"Sammy, cut to the chase. We need to see Clarissa Davidson. Now," Dean said forcefully, wrenching his arm from Sam's death grip.

"Do you want me to bring a doctor? We have an excellent staff," she drawled, evidently enjoying being difficult.

"Clarissa Davidson!"

The woman smirked as Dean's yell attracted the attention of the other people in the waiting room: patients milling around in white gowns, visitors, and nurses, including the small brunette who had found Dean so appealing.

"Room 526, Rosemary Ward. Enjoy your stay."

After fixing her with a final glare, Dean stalked down the hall, following the signs leading to the Rosemary Ward. Sam hurried after him, and they walked in silence, Dean irritated, Sam pensive, until Dean stopped walking and grabbed Sam's arm urgently.

"Do I really look like I could be in an insane asylum?"

.xxx.

I like this chapter! I'm proud of it…how'd you guys like it? Let me know by clicking that pretty little button!

Anyway, in the next chapter, we meet Clarissa, and light is shed upon the murder of James. Also, the connection between the theater and The Chef will be discussed.

Cookies to anyone who can figure out how Joseph Bates and 'Masquerade' factors into the story!

**Review answers:**

jj2629: Thanks! I hope this is soon enough for you!

Ghostwriter: I like your screen name! Is it from the old show Ghostwriter, or just random? Anyway, thanks for the review! I appreciate them!

Novthoniel: Thanks so much! Glad to have you aboard! I'm glad you think I'm doing well with Dean—he's hard, but fun, to write! By the way, I really love your story, 'Without a Heart'. It's a creative plotline, and I can't wait to see more!


	4. Chapter 4

Curtain Call

By, december.morning

Disclaimer: Uh…no. Hey! Has anyone ever noticed that Sam and Dean, if you take the first three letters, spells SAD? Coincidence? I think not.

Summary: His foot on the final step, he turned to face her and gave her another eerie, fake-smile, and whispered, "This is my scene."

Last time in Curtain Call: Dean discovers the lair of a serial killer underneath the stage, and the boys head off to the Green Oaks Insane Asylum to talk to Clarissa Davidson, where Dean is mistaken for a patient in the asylum.

Author's note: Y'know last time, when I said The Chef was from the 70's? I made a mistake. He's from the 90's.

.xxx.

_August 18th, 2003—Green Oaks Insane Asylum_

Sam and Dean stood in front of room 526, face to face with a "Vacant" sign. While Dean stood, arms crossed, eyes flinty, Sam pushed the sign aside, cupped his hands on the grimy glass, and peered into the room. No doubt about it, room 526 was empty: damn near everything in the room was covered in a thick layer of dust, except for one thing: a picture of a blonde woman, in a cracked wooden frame, propped up on the nightstand. He clicked his tongue in irritation and said, "Yeah, Nurse Whatsername lied. Room's empty."

"That room has been empty for fifty years, son. Ever since Ms. Davidson died," rumbled a deep voice behind them; turning around, the two found themselves toe to toe with an elderly doctor with a mop of salt and pepper hair, who was smiling rather forlornly down at them. "Who told you to come here?"

"The nurse at the front desk…did you say Davidson?"

"That'd be Nancy Tentilucci. She's been difficult ever since her father's…accident. And yes, I did say Davidson. A Melina Davidson used to room here. I believe we have her daughter, Clarissa Davidson, now. Unfortunate, really…she had so much potential…" the doctor sighed, his eyes far away, as if he were remembering something from long ago. He probably would have stayed as he was, just standing there, remembering, had Dean not cleared his throat loudly.

"Where's Clarissa roomed?" Dean asked urgently, "We need to see her."

The doctor surveyed Dean for a moment, then, his weathered face softened into a smile. "You seem like nice boys. She's in room 332. Just follow the signs," he said kindly, and as the two turned away, both saying 'thank you', he sighed and turned back to the glass. With a melancholy smile, he pressed his fingers against the glass.

"They can help, Melina. They'll help Clarissa…"

He could have sworn he heard a contented sigh whisper through the hallway, but he quickly wrote it off as his overactive imagination. Running a hand through his hair, he turned away, his nametag glinting in the white hospital light: Dr. Richard Bates, PhD.

.xxx.

_August 18th, 2003—Green Oaks Insane Asylum, room 332_

Dean knocked on the door, and they stood, hands jammed in pockets, until a thin 'come in' reached their ears. With a triumphant smile, Dean opened the door slowly, and walked into the room.

Clarissa, emaciated and pale, lay on the bed, her arms draped limply over her stomach. Her unnaturally pale blue eyes were fixed on Sam; she seemed to be ignoring Dean. The brothers stood, somewhat awkwardly, until Clarissa smiled weakly, and waved a thin arm at the uncomfortable-looking chairs sitting at her bedside.

"Thanks. I'm Officer Tyler, my partner here is Officer Kramer. How are you doing, Miss Davidson?"

"As good as can be expected. My mom was hacked up right down the hall, how do you think I'm doing?"

Sam and Dean exchanged glances, then Sam leaned closer to her, clasping his hands in his lap. "How did Green Oaks get out of that one?"

"The crime wasn't reported. Doctor Bates covered it up, said she died of natural causes. But I know," she said flatly, turning her head to look out of the window. "I saw them carry the skeleton out."

"Doctor Bates? Any relation to Joseph Bates?" Dean asked quickly.

"Yeah, they were brothers. Richard, that's the doctor's name, he's kind of twitchy. Seemed real nervous after they carried Mom's…skeleton…out of the room. They closed up her room…he said it was out of respect, said he liked her a lot, but I think it was out of guilt," she answered. "You know, you're going to think I'm completely nuts…"

The two exchanged mirthless glances, then Sam smiled wanly. "Nothing is too out there for us, Clarissa."

"Did you hear about James? My boyfriend? I'm in here because the police think I killed him," she said hesitantly.

"Yeah, we read about it in the paper. That's why we're here," Sam answered, raising his eyebrows. "You didn't kill him, did you?"

Her eyes seemed to harden, and her head snapped up, so she stared Sam right in the eye. "No! We might've fought, but I loved him…he was my best friend," she whispered, biting her lip. "I didn't kill him, but something did…"

"What did you see, Clarissa?" Dean asked, his eyebrows furrowed. He was obviously ready to go through his inventory of spirits and demons.

"Well, he went on the stage –it was weird, he looked dazed— and he knelt, kind of like he'd been pushed, and started screaming. Then this cloud thing came over him, and he stopped screaming, and when the cloud was gone…well, all that was left was a skeleton."

"When he was screaming, did it seem like he was in pain?"

"Oh, yes. I'd never even seen him _cry_ before. It had to hurt something awful for him to even wince," she murmured. "Have you ever heard of The Chef?"

"Yes, we found some old newspaper articles about him in the theater," Sam replied, his thoughts racing.

"Yeah, you would've," she answered bitterly, turning her face away. "My mom had a diary…she brought it with her…"

"A diary?"

"Pretty little thing…all pink…" she whispered, then murmured something unintelligible. "Find the diary. Now, go away."

.xxx.

_August 18th, 2003—Lucky 7 Motel_

"Find the diary. That's about the most useless piece of advice we've _ever_ gotten," Dean grumbled. "You know, she might actually be insane, Sammy."

"No, I don't think so," Sam said distractedly, from his position on the lumpy bed; he was busy looking up the case files of The Chef's murders, courtesy of the Pennsylvania police files. "Hey, Dean, look what I found. All of the victims were connected to the show. _The Phantom of the Opera_, the Bates' play that flopped?"

"That's weird…"

"The victims were Melina Davidson, Antoine Tentilucci, Paulina Lutz, and other assorted actors, musicians and crew men from the show. And get this: the first killing occurred two months after the show. There's no mention of The Chef before then," Sam said, turning the laptop so that Dean could see.

The two of them stared at each other, Sam's mouth slightly open, Dean's eyes wide. Then they both began talking at once.

"I don't think it's a coincidence—"

"Maybe Melina knew something, that could be why—"

"We're goin' diary hunting!"

.xxx.

_August 18th, 2003—Green Oaks Insane Asylum_

"Winchester style?" Sam whispered, and Dean grinned and nodded.

"Yup. If I was religious, I'd thank God that her window's on the ground floor," Dean answered. "Get down!"

They threw themselves to the ground; a split second later, a guard meandered past one of the glass doors.

"Dude, this is like a James Bond movie!" Dean commented, with a cocky grin, as they stood. While Sam kept a lookout for any more guards, Dean was carefully peering through the windows, looking for the telltale, dust covered room 526. "Bingo!"

"Put the gloves on first, Dean," Sam muttered, withdrawing a pair of rubber gloves from his pockets. Dean took them and put them on, stretching the rubber over his hands as quietly as possible.

Taking care to be extremely quiet, he slid the window up, then coughed into his elbow as a thick layer of dust permeated the air. Still coughing, he swung both legs through the window and landed in a crouch on the floor, Sam following. Another layer of dust floated up, shimmering faintly in the weak light of Sam's flashlight.

"Whoa. Welcome to the Kingdom of the Dust Bunnies," Dean said distastefully, running a finger over the grimy nightstand. When he lifted it, the finger was stained black with dust, and you still couldn't see the surface of the nightstand.

"Yeah, make sure they don't eat you. I'll look under the bed."

Dean extracted his own mini-flashlight from the pocket of his jacket, and they searched in silence for about ten minutes, until Sam, who had worked his way over to the over-turned bookcase, whistled softly to get Dean's attention.

"What'd you get?"

"I found the diary."

"Lets read it!"

_March 2nd, 1991_

_I checked myself into Green Oaks today—I got Clarissa, bless her heart, to tell them that I had some obscure psychological disease. I don't, of course, but now that I know Joseph's secret, I don't feel safe in the real world. And Antoine and Paulina are dead…Raul and Carlotta in the play. With me as Christine, it only makes sense that I'm next._

_Clarissa says I'm being ridiculous. Joseph is dead, after all; I watched him put a gun to his head the morning after the show. But two months later, I saw him kill Antoine. I recognized his face. Somehow, Joseph is behind this. Maybe he survived somehow?_

_I don't understand why Joseph is doing this. Yes, the play was far from perfect, but killing the actors and actresses? It just doesn't make sense._

_Yesterday, I told the police that I thought –no, knew– that Joseph Bates was The Chef, but they didn't believe me. Apparently, the cops aren't apt to believe women who have their daughters check them into asylums. I really tried to make them believe me, but they had some doctor sedate me, and when I woke up, I was here, with my arms in restraints. _

_Richard likes me, so he let me go, but he made me promise not to leave the bed. Now, it's dark, and all of the doctors have gone home, except for a few night nurses, who don't do anything but get buzzed on cappuccinos in the kitchens._

_Oh—there's someone at the window. Maybe it's Clarissa? She knows that the window is the most convenient way to visit me; if she were to go to the main desk, she'd have to be accompanied by a doctor, and that just doesn't work._

_I'll go see who it is…I'll continue this entry after Clarissa leaves._

"That's the last entry," Sam murmured, flipping through the cracked and yellowed pages of Melina Davidson's diary.

"So Bates crept through the window, grabbed her and dragged her to his hellhole?" Dean said quietly, after a few minutes of stunned silence.

"Looks like it."

"All right…let's go back to the motel, do some research on the play, and then we can bust this ghost's ass!"

.xxx.

_August 19th, 2003—Lucky 7 Motel_

"So, all of the characters from the play are dead. Bates killed 'em all?"

"No…in the obits of The Inquirer, it says the dude who played The Phantom died of a heart attack. Natural causes, Dean. Bates needs a new phantom," Sam answered, tapping away at the keyboard of the laptop.

"And we're gonna give him one!" Dean said enthusiastically. "I always knew this face was meant for Broadway."

"No…I look more like the original Phantom. Don't you see what he's doing, Dean? Killing off the original actors, musicians and crewmen? He didn't get the play right in life, so he's going to try and put on the show in death," Sam replied, slamming the lid of the laptop down.

"We don't have any indication that Bates is dead, Sammy. He could still be alive."

"No, we do, Dean. In the diary, Melina said she saw him put a gun to his head, and pull the trigger. He committed suicide, but remember how he stormed out of the theater before the closer of the play?" Dean's nod encouraged him to continue. "The bastard must've thought things over in those two months between his death and Antoine's murder that he wanted to try again. He's got the three main characters –Christine, Carlotta and Raul–, now all he needs is the Phantom."

"Sammy. I'm not gonna let you do this!" Dean yelled. "You are not offering yourself up on a platter to this psycho!"

Sam stood up, and walked over to his brother, his expression almost disturbingly calm.

"Dean, c'mon. The only way Bates will show himself is if he has someone to kill. Besides, if you're gonna salt and burn the bones, you need someone to distract him—he's hardly just gonna let you rip up the walls and torch his skeleton."

For a minute, Dean stood and glared, thinking hard: how to get out of this corner Sam had boxed him into? Then he sighed loudly and scowled.

"All right. Fine. But we're doing it tonight."

"Lets go, then."

.xxx.

Whew…long one! But I really like this chapter…probably my favorite, aside from the last one…gotta love those creepy hidden rooms!

Did anyone catch the aliases? Tyler and Kramer? Tyler's the singer from Aerosmith, and Kramer's the drummer from Aerosmith…as far as I know, their music was never used in the show, but I figured Dean would like them, since they're classic rock.

In the next chapter (which may be the last), the boys face up against Joseph Bates/The Chef, and we find out just why Richard Bates felt guilty about Melina's death, and why he covered it up.

**Review responses: **(Only two? I'm sad…)

Ghostwriter: Yay! Someone thought that was funny! That review made my day, thanks for taking the time to let me know how I'm doing!

lunarsun-solarmoon: Thanks! I'm glad you like it, and I hope this update is quick enough for you!

Please let me know how I'm doing! I'll finish the story nonetheless, but hearing what you guys think of my writing really makes my day. I won't say how often I check my email for reviews, but it's pretty often.


	5. Chapter 5

Curtain Call

By, december.morning

Disclaimer: Neh. That's all I'll say on THAT manner.

Summary: His foot on the final step, he turned to face her and gave her another eerie, fake-smile, and whispered, "This is my scene."

Last time in Curtain Call: The boys break into the asylum and retrieve Melina Davidson's diary, which contains some extremely valuable information: for one thing, Joseph Bates is The Chef. For another, he killed himself two months before the killings began. Also, Sam finds out that everyone who died was in the show, but the man who played the Phantom died of a heart attack. He decides to offer himself up, so to attract Bates' attention.

.xxx.

_August 19th, 2003—Bucks County Playhouse_

Outside the playhouse, Dean was nervously rifling through the trunk, whereas Sam leaned nonchalantly on the trunk, staring at the dark, ominous doors of the Bucks County Playhouse. While Dean dropped things, swore and made a God-awful racket, Sam was in silent contemplation: how to draw out Bates? Somehow, he doubted that yelling "Hey, asshole, come on out!" would do the trick in this situation. They needed something more subtle.

"Dean, what the hell are you looking for?"

"I thought I knew, but I don't really anymore. Something to keep him away from you, I guess," Dean muttered distractedly, extracting a large, vicious looking knife from the depths of the trunk. He pressed his thumb against the blade to check the sharpness, then swore and dropped the knife as a thin line of blood welled up. "Damn, it's sharp!"

"That would be the point of a knife. And, the point of me going into the theater is to get him close to me. Distraction, remember?" Sam answered, somewhat amused. He ambled over and picked up the knife, throwing it back into the trunk. "Relax. You've got the salt and gas, right?"

"Yup, and I got my bag lunch, too, Mom," Dean replied with a grin, holding up paper bag, filled with God-knew-what. Serious moment gone. Sam rolled his eyes and grinned.

"Back window again?"

"Uh-huh."

In silence, the two walked to their open window, which they hadn't bothered to shut. After giving Dean a boost, Sam clambered awkwardly through the too-small, spider web covered window, getting many of the sticky threads in his hair in the process. As they dropped to the ground, Sam realized gleefully that Dean had spider webs all over his face; as it was, his older brother was swiping angrily at his face.

"Dude, you look like an old man!"

"Shut up. We got asses to torch!"

Sam could only smile as the brothers crept into the theater, Dean clutching his paper bag, Sam shining a flashlight around the ice-cold, pitch black theater. He shivered –Damn, was it cold!— and began to prowl around the theater. Meanwhile, Dean was rooting through his paper bag, and eventually surfaced with a small hammer, which he immediately put to use on the walls.

"Dean. Dean, I'm going on the stage. Keep looking for the hollow spot, that's probably where the body's hidden," Sam whispered; the sound echoed through the dark theater. Dean didn't answer, but the beam of his flashlight caught Dean's bobbing head. Sam grinned weakly and turned on his heel, walking down the same aisle –unbeknownst to him— that James had walked to his death on. As he stepped over the hidden room, a violent shiver rocked his body, and he dropped the flashlight.

He swore and crouched, turning his head so he could see into the secret room. Sure enough, the flashlight lay at the bottom of the stairs, its beam flickering weakly. He frowned: he had just replaced those batteries!

Sighing, he stood and turned, only to find himself face to face with Joseph Bates.

Also known as The Chef.

Death had not treated Bates well. His skin was a sickly shade of grey, and it hung off of his frame like clothes that were many sizes too large. The clothes he wore were discolored and ripped, exposing more pale skin, and the occasional bright white bone. His hair was almost nonexistent; what he did have was bleached white, and his eyes were a pale, luminescent green. In his hands, he held a syringe with a thick metal pointer, and a vicious looking knife. He smiled, exposing yellow, rotted nubs of teeth; obviously, Bates didn't believe in the power of oral hygiene.

For a moment, the two stared at each other –Sam's eyes wide with a mixture of shock and disgust, Bates' creepy grin growing wider— before two things happened simultaneously: Bates raised his syringe, and Sam opened his mouth.

"Dean! Damnit, look faster!" He yelled, which got Dean's attention well enough: his older brother whipped around, dropping the hammer on his toe in the process. For a minute, Dean just stared, before picking up the hammer and beating on the walls with more fervor than before.

"Hello, Samuel. Do you have an acting background?" Bates asked, taking a step towards Sam. The ghost smiled still wider, and looked Sam over.

Sam was determinedly silent. He only glared at the ghost, trying to fit all of his hatred into his gaze.

"You seem to. Why, anyone can see that you are frightened. But you conceal it. You hide yourself well, Samuel, and a good actor needs that. Would you like to join the show?"

Before he knew what he was doing, Sam shook his head vehemently.

"But we have an incredible cast…" Bates waved his arm daintily, and a howling wind screamed through the theater. Dimly, Sam heard his brother swearing in the background, but his attention wasn't on Dean; it was on the stage.

Defying everything he had ever learned about spirits, they were appearing on the stage, their arrival punctuated by the unpleasant smell of death. There were roughly 10 ghosts, dressed in all sorts of clothes: a boy in his mid twenties, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt; a young, blonde woman in a hospital gown; a handsome man who had the same jaw as Nancy from Green Oaks…slowly, Sam realized what he was looking at: the victims of The Chef.

"We need you, Samuel. We need you to be The Phantom…"

A loud hollow noise permeated the theater: Dean had belatedly found the hollow spot.

"Tut. Excuse me for a minute…" Bates said in an almost bored tone, sweeping past Sam. "Mr. Winchester, I strongly encourage you to leave my bones alone."

By now, Dean had the bones on the floor, and he was busy pouring salt over them. "Not gonna happen, Ghost Boy. You're gonna burn!"

Bates shook his head slowly, and clapped his hands. It was as if a telekinetic explosion had taken forth: Dean was literally lifted into the air and thrown into the back wall, at least ten feet away.

"Dean!"

"No, no…leave him. He'll die soon, anyway…" the ghost commented sadistically, raising the needle. "Melina, hold him."

The ghost in the hospital gown came forward, slowly, reluctantly, and gripped Sam's forearms tightly. There was something in her touch that shocked him: maybe it was how ice cold her fingers were? It was almost like there was electricity in her tingling fingers. But before he got a chance to even twitch against her death-grip, Bates slammed the needle into the soft flesh beneath his sternum. Looking right into Sam's eyes, the ghost pushed the plunger, and Sam screamed before he knew he had opened his mouth.

Eyes wide and mouth wider, Sam felt himself slide out of Melina's tingling grip, and to the floor. God, his nerves were on fire; even the slow, gradual fall to the floor had hurt him. It was like he had thrown himself off of the roof of the Empire State Building, instead of just falling to his knees on the carpeted floor.

"Now, this will hurt, Samuel. But it will be worth it…" Bates whispered, crouching down next to where Sam writhed on the floor. He grinned, a gross parody of kindness, and slipped underneath the stage. Hooking a pale hand under Sam's collar, the ghost dragged Sam's pain-wracked, twitching body underneath the stage. He snapped his long fingers, and a heavy crate moved slowly along the floor, finally stopping right in front of the door. Another snap, and the crate slammed back, sending waves of dust into the air.

.xxx.

_April 19th, 2003—Bucks County Playhouse_

Dean awoke hours later to a headache that trumped any hangover he'd ever had. As he sat up, rubbing his head and moaning, he was confused for a second: what the hell happened? Then it all came slamming back: Sammy, the ghost, flying across the room…the bones! Swearing, Dean rocketed to his feet, studiously ignoring the throbbing ache in his temples.

The bones were still there, the salt scattered tantalizingly over them, but the gasoline was gone. He stared at them for a fraction of a second, then kicked the bones angrily and stepped back. Unable to burn the bones, he did the only thing he could.

"Sammy?"

Nothing. He tried again, this time louder—still nothing. It was as quiet as a mausoleum in that damned theater!

He swept the theater a final time, then turned to the doors.

_"He said it was out of respect, said he liked her a lot, but I think it was out of guilt…"_

Dr. Richard Bates…he had to know something. And he was Joseph Bates' brother. Why else would he feel guilty?

"I'm gonna find you, Sammy," Dean whispered, before turning and sprinting to their famous open window.

Little did he know, but Sam was tied up, less than fifty feet away, in Bates' personal purgatory.

.xxx.

Hoo-wee! I like this one…! I'd been imagining the meeting between Bates and the brothers for a while, and I like how it turned out!

I actually don't have much to say in this situation…;

Oh! Yeah! In the next chapter…eh…what fun would it be if I told you?

**Review Responses **(Yay! Five!)

Ghostwriter: Yeah, you're right…hell, school is why it took me so long to put up this chapter! Thanks for your consistent reviews!

Gods Geek: Thanks! I'm so glad you like it! I hope you like this chapter!

Alyssa Halliwell: It's okay, I'm glad you reviewed! Yeah, looks like there's gonna be another chapter, maybe even two more! I just couldn't wrap everything up in one one. Sorry if this is a bit late; school got in the way.

Elle Knight: Thanks! You bet I'm going to be writing more stories; I've got a new idea brewing already. Gonna be called Ragdoll, and I actually had a nightmare about it last night. Anyway, I picked The Phantom of the Opera because it's just so haunting, and it's familiar to me—my sister is obsessed. That show provides endless opportunities for creepiness! Plus, a character called The Phantom? Perfect!

pmsdevil01: I like your penname! And thanks for reviewing, I really hope you enjoy this new update!

All I can say is, drop a line! Let me know if you liked it, or if you didn't!


	6. Chapter 6

Curtain Call

By, december.morning

Disclaimer: Not my birthday, not Christmas, I don't have fairy god parents…in other words, NO, I do not own Supernatural, Sam, Dean, Jensen or Jared. But damn, do I wish I did.

Summary: His foot on the final step, he turned to face her and gave her another eerie, fake-smile, and whispered, "This is my scene."

A/N: I'm SO sorry this took so long…I've been really busy with the play. Opening night is tomorrow, Friday March 3rd, so we've been rehearsing a lot. Whenever I wasn't rehearsing, I was scrambling around, trying to do my homework, or stressing.

Last time in Curtain Call: Dean discovers Bates' skeleton, but the ghost is less than cooperative. The ghost knocks Dean out and drags Sam into his torture chamber; when Dean wakes up, the gasoline is gone. He drives off to find Richard Bates.

.xxx.

_April 19th, 2003—Richard Bates' home_

Dean was pushing 80 in a 40 mph zone, but he didn't care. Every moment he wasted obeying pedestrian constraints was another moment his Sammy was in Bates' clutches. So, ignoring the yells and one fingered salutes he received, he slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, and accelerated to 85 mph. Now he pushed down hard on the brakes, simultaneously turning the wheel of the overheating Impala into the driveway of Richard Bates' cushy New Hope farmhouse. The car had barely wheezed to a halt before he threw the door of the car open, and tumbled out of the Impala. He patted the roof of the car quickly as he passed.

He took the stairs of Bates' porch two at a time, and pushed the bell at least five times. Some classical music rang throughout the house each time he pushed the bell, and it was in the middle of the sixth ring that Richard Bates, disheveled, rubbing his eyes, and only in boxer shorts, opened the door.

"One ring of the bell would suffice, young man," grumbled the doctor, glaring at Dean with steely eyes.

"I—I need your help. Joseph Bates, he was your brother, right?" Dean said urgently, meeting the doctor's dark eyes, which were currently wide with fright.

"It must be a coincidence. Bates is a common name…" he stuttered, stumbling back. "Please, leave," he said, attempting to push the door shut. "It's the middle of the—"

"Yeah, I know it's the middle of the night! It's also the night before your brother's play flopped, give or take two years!" Dean asserted, pushing his way through the door. The doctor made a strangled noise and stumbled back.

"You know something about Joseph Bates, don't you, _Richard?_" Dean said savagely, "your little brother is murdering people, doctor, and now he has Sammy in his quaint little torture chamber! _You know something, and you are going to tell me!"_

The doctor was staring at Dean with wide, crazed eyes. "I can't tell you! He'll kill me!"

"I won't let him kill you! But if my brother dies, it'll be your fault, and then you'll wish that I'd have let him," Dean threatened, narrowing his eyes. He knew he wasn't handling this very well –Sammy was the public relations guy, Dean just shot stuff— but what was he supposed to do? Ask nicely over a cup of English Gray?

"I brought him back so he could try again! You're not going to fuck that up!" the doctor shouted, and it was such a sudden change of emotions that Dean took a step back.

Necromancy. Of course…that was why Bates had surfaced so late, and why he looked so awful. Most ghosts looked like they had when they died, but not Bates…he looked like he'd spent a few months underground…it would have taken a while for Richard to gather the necessary supplies, and the nerve to raise the dead.

"But he's murdering innocent people! You can't want that for him, Richard!" Dean said in a low voice, slowly moving towards the obviously imbalanced man. Richard was staring at him, looking particularly insane in his Daffy Duck boxers, bed head, and wild red eyes.

The two of them stared at each other for several long, anxious moments, before the doctor sighed loudly, his shoulders slumping.

"No. I don't. But I loved him so much…and when I saw him with that gun to his head, I knew he didn't really want to die. So I promised him I'd bring him back…" Richard murmured. "And I never break my promises."

Dean just stared at the doctor. "If he put a gun to his head, and pulled the fucking trigger, I'd say he wanted to die, buddy," he said scathingly.

Bates shook his head, and grabbed a coat from the coat hook, then turned around to eye a stunned Dean. "You coming or not?"

"Coming. We have to hurry, your asshole of a brother dragged Sam under the stage about three hours ago," Dean answered, earning a sharp glare from Richard, but the doctor said nothing; he merely rushed upstairs, and returned five minutes later, clutching a heavy leather book, and clad in a hunter green bathrobe. He was still silent.

After all, how could you defend a psychotic murderer?

.xxx.

_August 19th, 2003—Bucks County Playhouse_

After a quick pit stop at the local Sunoco, to get a tank of gas from the bleary-eyed mechanic, Dean and Richard pulled up in front of the playhouse. The doctor was wringing his hands, but Dean merely glared at the doors, and got out of the Impala. He started to open the trunk for the tank of gas, which Richard had been reluctant to buy, but he was stopped by Richard's quiet protest.

"You don't need that. I have everything I need here," the elderly man murmured, holding up the battered book. Dean narrowed his eyes, slight frown lines appearing between his eyes. "I promise."

Those words struck a chord, and Dean nodded. Without saying a word, he hurried to the back of the theater, boosted Richard through the window, and then followed quickly. Taking care to be silent, the two men tiptoed into the mausoleum-quiet theater. Dean didn't know how Richard was, but the man was pale. He himself was nervous as hell.

"I'll lure him out...get Sammy. You just do whatever you do with that book," Dean whispered, running on the tips of his toes towards the stage. Richard's stage-whisper cut him off.

"He might not be alive, you know," the man said quietly, not meeting Dean's eyes as he leafed exaggeratedly through his book.

Just as Dean opened his mouth, with the full intention to give this ass-faced necromancer a piece of his mind, a piercing scream filled the auditorium. It was a voice Dean would know anywhere.

"Sammy!" Dean shouted, throwing himself underneath the stage, simultaneously pulling a rock salt gun from the back of his jeans. He was met with the scene from hell.

His baby brother, his Sammy, was chained up like an animal, chained to the wall with a set of manacles—vicious specimens covered with blood, both new and old. Sam was clad only in boxers, and his eyes were wide and glazed, locked on to where Dean stood, but from the lack of recognition, Dean's fogged mind concluded that Sam couldn't see him. He was covered in sweat, dirt and blood, and for a minute, Dean wondered where the blood was coming from. Until he saw the cuts.

If they could be called cuts…Joseph Bates had hacked into Sam's chest and arms, taking out tiny triangles of flesh, which littered the floor around him. The marks, although small, bled copiously; where Sam wasn't cut, he was bloody. Dean gagged, and before he knew what he was doing, he stepped forward, arms outstretched to Sam.

His heart ached as Sam flinched back. "No…Sammy, it's me. It's Dean! Your big brother," he said, his voice cracking. "Big brother's gonna get you outta here…promise," he whispered, feeling something wet slide down his cheek as Sam flinched again, and made a small, frightened noise in the back of his throat.

Slowly, he turned around to look for a key, only to come face to face with Joseph Bates, who leered at him with his yellowed nubs. The ghost backhanded him viciously, and Dean stumbled back, knocking into Sam, who groaned loudly.

"Fuck! Sorry, Sammy! Sorry!" He fumbled for his gun (damnit, his hands were trembling!), and finally managed to pull the trigger. The salt blasted through the ghost, and slammed into the wall behind him, leaving several satisfying craters. With an unearthly scream, Bates flew past Dean, and up into the main theater.

"NOW, RICHARD!" Dean screamed, at the top of his lungs, praying that the man would hear him. He dedicated his attentions to ripping the tiny room apart, searching for a key. "Key…key…damnit! If I were a psycho murderer, where would I hide a fucking key…key! Bingo!" Not realizing how crazy he sounded, he ripped the rusted key from its position on the wall, and jammed it into the manacles, which came loose with a noisy creak.

Sam's eyes rolled up into his head, and he pitched forward. With a grunt, Dean caught him, then swept his legs up so that he could carry Sam up the stairs. He leaned forward and stumbled up the steep, blood stained stone steps.

In the main theater, Richard and Joseph stood face to face. With a start, Dean realized how similar they looked…maybe the similarity was why Richard wasn't doing anything.

"Richard, god damnit! Send him back to hell!" Dean yelled, and both men, one alive, one very much dead, turned to him. Joseph leered again, and raised a hand; Dean felt himself be blasted backwards. He collided with the stage, and landed on the floor, with Sam somehow still in his arms. Gritting his teeth, he tried to rise, but found that he was locked into place, so he had to be content with sending the brothers' his most murderous glare.

"This is between my brother and I, Mr. Winchester," said Joseph calmly. "What are you going to do, _Richy?_" the ghost intoned, turning back to Richard, who trembled, the book perilously close to falling from his hands. "Do you think you can best me, brother dear?"

"Joseph—I have to, what you're doing is wrong…" Richard choked, tears sliding down his cheeks. "When I brought you back, I had no idea…you killed Melina, why did you kill Melina?"

"Because, Richy, her performance was not up to par. You know I only tolerate the very best," Joseph answered, smiling slightly.

"Joseph, I have to kill you…" whispered Richard, shaking his head slowly. "I have to send you back!"

The ghost nodded calmly. "If you can bring yourself to utter the correct words, brother dear, I will allow it."

Dean fixed his eyes upon Richard, who stood, trembling, looking into the dull, dead eyes of his brother. The ghost grinned widely at Richard, who winced, and opened up the book with trembling hands. His eyes darted up to meet Joseph's, and he began to read, in a small, quavering voice.

_"Transporto is vir tergum ut suus sepulchrum…"_

Subconciously, Dean translated: _Send this man back to his grave…_

_"May is nunquam reverto iterum…"_

_May he never return again…_

Richard choked a bit, and looked at Dean, with wide, terrified eyes. He turned back to his reading; seeming to gather something within himself, he shouted the last line.

_"May totus involved in suus reverto pereo, quo…"_

_And may all involved in his return perish…_

Dean's eyes widened, and he began to struggle. "Richard, no! There's another way! Another spe—"

But before he could finish the word 'spell', Richard looked up, his eyes blazing, and positively roared the final word.

"AMEN!"

Joseph and Richard merely stared at each other, with Dean looking on with wide, horrified eyes, before the ghost threw his head back and gave a long, keening wail. A fire blazed up at his feet, and, gleaming with a holy light, raced up his torso. With Joseph screaming like a banshee, the fire began to consume him, and, with a final burst, it flew into a flaming inferno. Dean yelled and shut his eyes (his arms were locked into place), and when he opened them, all that remained of Joseph Bates was a smoldering pile of ashes.

Richard, however, still stood. He smiled faintly at Dean, and whispered two words: _"Thank you."_

Then he threw his head back, gave a single howl of pain, and keeled over backwards. A loud bang filled Dean's ears, and he found himself free of the binding enchantment. At the same time, Sam opened his eyes, and, for the first time, he seemed to recognize Dean.

"Dean—what the hell…?" Sam said, with difficulty. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, a sight that pulled at Dean's heartstrings.

"Shh, Sammy. It's all over. Bates is dead –again— and so's the yobbo who brought him back. We need to get you out of here," Dean said quietly, and he struggled to his feet, Sam still in his arms. Carefully, he positioned his arm so that Sam couldn't see the body of Richard Bates, and hurried out of the theater. As he passed by where Bates' skeleton had been, he realized that it, too, had disintegrated; all that remained was another pile of ashes.

The chains that circulated the door fell off as Dean reached the doors, and he was able to kick it open easily enough. He slipped out into the grey-pink morning, unlocked the Impala, and laid Sam into the passengers seat without even bothering to lay a towel over the leather.

Unsurprisingly, the car was silent as the brothers' drove away from the Bucks County Playhouse. Sam was in too much pain to speak, but Dean was deep in thought.

_This one damn near got us killed…how many more near death experiences can we survive?_

.xxx.

Well, that's it! The last chapter of Curtain Call…boohoo…no, really. I'm going to miss this story!

Review responses:

Jessica: Yeah, me too! I hope this ending satisfied you!

Ghostwriter: Thanks! I'm sorry you had to wait this long, I really hope it was worth it!

Eternal Bleeding Heart: Aaah, I'll always have Gracie. Hope you liked this chapter, and I'll start Ragdoll on Sunday or Monday!

My next story is going to be Ragdoll. It's about young women in Wisconsin who are abducted out of their beds…normal, right? But what's weird is that they're found with body parts missing, and they're always insane. They repeat one phrase 24/7, and only sleep if sedated. The phrase is _What a pretty doll…_

Weird, huh?

Final A/N: Thank you SO much to everyone who reviewed, and everyone who put me on their alerts or favorites…I really appreciate it! And tons of cookies and cows to Eternal Bleeding Heart, AKA Grace, AKA the psycho who beta'd this story for me. Thank you so much!


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